Well we have reached the end of the story.

Life continued and fourty four years later, I sit on the beach in Sarasota and I ponder about what will be next.  Plenty of adventures filled my days and I am sure that I could write another book about it but I have to say that nothing could match the incredible time five kids had growing up in the fifties and sixties in a world we can only remember with nostalgia.

You have read the book, you have followed the adventures of the Paragon Gang.  The only thing I can add is:  Please tell us what you think, leave your comments, tell us what you expect next, tell us what you liked and what you disliked, tell us if you think this book was written in a way that allowed you to identify with the events and the places where they took place.

Please send you comments on this very site.  Rude and irrelevant comments will not be approved but all other comments whether critical or positive will be posted.

Thanks to you all for your help and for having followed our adventures throughout.

This book is dedicated to my wife Barrie, my most faithful and supportive fan, our two sons and of course, Sophie.

If you want to email me directly please use the address listed on every post prior to the epilogue and this one.

Cheers

Peter

EPILOGUE

I spent five days in New York. Five dizzying days filled with wonder and amazement. I looked at all the buildings and checked out the famous landmarks. I saw Grand Central station where I was going to catch the train to my new life in the US. I went to Times Square, the stature of liberty, Battery park and Central Park. I got lost over and over and finally exhausted my capacity for absorbing all that was to be seen and felt in such massive and overwhelming metropolis. I had to leave and find America the way I had imagined it. I needed to find a filter through which I could slowly absorb the culture and the way of life of a country unlike any other. The shock was brutal. Everything we had seen about America was perfect, Father Knows Best was our standard by which we expected America to be. From the eyes of a young and relatively naive 18 years old, I was not prepared. I saw a black man working in the snow! In the snow! It never dawned on me that Black people worked and lived in the snow. In Africa they did not! I saw a crippled man in a wheelchair! Since everything was perfect, why was this man in a wheelchair?

The language was also a rude awakening, “Father knows best” spoke in proper English, John Wayne did too with an accent but in New York, the language was totally different and some of the words they used were unknown to me. The south was even worse, I could not understand a word they were saying, I felt I was in a foreign film and they did not provide subtitles!…Day by day reality was setting in and I was trying to absorb it all. But one thing was splendid over all the others: The automobiles were gigantic!, I quickly spent $400 and bought myself a used, Black, BIG, 1963 Mercury Monterey with chrome everywhere and strange turquoise gauges illumination, a radio and a bloody electric antenna! I was in heaven!

I traveled around the United States for two months jumping from train to train and bus to bus. I met people just like the ones in the movies. Never did I feel un-welcomed. From time to time, I had the impression that I was a bit of a curiosity, but I must say that the people of America opened their arms to me and accepted me as one of their own. I even spent days in Dallas trying to learn say “sheee-yee-it” with three syllables to the great delight of fun-loving Texans who were having a field day with my accent and expressions.

I finally ended up in Boston, where I had heard that my ancestor’s friends landed on a rock a few years before… In America I found a new life full of trials and tribulations but also full of liberty and freedom; a land for the future, a land based on their aspirations for greatness and promises.

Six months later I received a telegram from my grandfather advising me that Marcella had died after catching the flu and developing pneumonia. His only kind words were, “I am sorry, I knew she cared well for you.” I cried all night.

Three months later, John Cartwright, my grandfather’s barrister, sent me a communication announcing that he had passed away after suffering a massive heart attack, and that his will was opened and he had left me the two cars he had given me and the sum of 5000 pounds to defray some of my expenses. Everything else was given to the church, his club and other various other charities.

Six months later, I went back to England to retrieve whatever possessions I had left there, brought the cars to Southampton where I had booked passage on the Cunard ship RMS Sylvania. The cars were loaded on the ship and we crossed the ocean on the same route the doomed Titanic had taken 64 years earlier. I never shed a tear and I never looked back. This part of my life was over. It had been incredibly joyful and happy, and it had been incredibly painful and dreadfully sad. I wish I could have left without a badly broken heart

With renewed courage and anticipation I finally lived in the US where I proudly later obtained the title of “citizen” with all the privileges and freedom associated with it. I earned this title, I did not beg for it and did not demand it. I did not usurp it. I paid my dues and worked hard. Even though you never completely lose your roots, I became an American in name and in heart. I did not become an Englishman in America, and I did not try to bring England with me while forcing everybody to live my way. I tried to learn the version of the language spoken on this side of the pond and I adopted the customs and culture of my new land. I now proudly sing the Star Spangled Banner as a testimony to a land that gave me my freedom even if I was not born when it had been taken. Old Glory hangs proud in front of my house.

I had left everything behind me. My grandfather, my father and Marcella had passed on to a different dimension. Tommy had joined the Royal Air Force and was killed in a training accident. Mikey had attended Oxford and became a teacher. He later married and had two children, the first one was named Peter and the second Pogsy. He was later diagnosed with throat cancer and died a few months later never having seen America and never having sailed around the world with me. Monty attended the University, graduated and became a respectable barrister. His life was also cut short when he was killed in a senseless automobile accident on his way back to the village where he still spent his weekends.

Alice left home two years after I moved to the US. She met a Frenchman, got married and moved to the South of France. I lost touch with Alice and hope that her life was as good as she had dreamt it to be. The Malvesy’s, their heart irreparably broken, moved away from the village without rebuilding the store.

Mr. Malvesy retired and died three years later. The Malvesy brothers scattered and found their own paths; I do not know what happened to them. Mrs. Malvesy lost her will to live after the death of her husband and was remanded to an institution where she died three years later.

Isleen left the village and never kept in touch with anyone. There was a rumor that she had become a Labour politician and had a torrid affair with a well-known member of the Royal family; of course, this was only a rumor….

Lieutenant William Newton, III, from Los Angeles still rests peacefully on the land he fought to free; I never found his family. I hope that some day one of them may read this book and contact me. I would love to meet them and share the special experiences of my time in Normandy and learn more about Lieutenant William Newton, III, a hero and liberator, a man to whom I owe my own freedom in more ways than one.

Of all the friends that filled my life with joy, love and true understanding, none was here to reach out and remember of our tight little group that shared joy, adventure, laughter and sorrow. I was the only one left. I took it upon myself to live their dreams and fill their aspirations. Because of them, I have lived a fun and adventure-filled life, I had the opportunity to meet incredible people, some famous, some not. I had to fight battles few have too. I sailed around the world and I discovered and explored it in all it magnificence and unimaginable grandeur with the spirit of my friends safely stowed in my heart with Mikey as my inspiration.

Fate and time had finally closed the door on generations of ancestors. All my dearest friends were either gone or had taken their own path away from the roots of our youthful happiness. I had been disinherited and all that I ever knew as mine was gone. The places of my youth were now places in the heart holding wonderful and cherished memories, nothing more and all the ties had been severed, the gate had closed behind me and the only thing left was the path ahead of me, filled with unforeseen adventures and experiences.

I found happiness a world away from my roots and far from a fate-altered destiny, but that is a different story in itself. Wherever I went and whatever I did, I only know that Monty, Pogsy, Mikey and Tommy went right along with me. My yearning for all that was American may have brought me here to live my life and find peace and happiness, but when all is reflected upon if the reason for my coming to America and my passion for this great country must be explained, all that can be said is that it all came down to a visit to an American Garden of Stones.

Final word count: 108053

“The following day, Monty, Mikey, Tommy, Alice, Mr. Arneson and I went down to the fort and dismantled it leaving the old oak tree standing as if naked, having lost its most precious adornment.”

Keywords: AC Bristol, Austin Healy, Bentley

Chapter 33…………………….Last Days

Mr. and Mrs. Arneson had me over during the Christmas break and I spent an entire afternoon with them and Mikey reminiscing about our summers and the wonderful times we had shared and all the memories we had created, enough to last us a lifetime. Mikey, his father and I walked slowly to the fort and entered this hallowed hall for the last time, relished the smell and feel of the old place and all agreed that it was time for the fort to come down as a vestige of a gone era filled with love, fun and laughter. The following day, Monty, Mikey, Tommy, Alice, Mr. Arneson and I went down to the fort and dismantled it leaving the old oak tree standing as if naked, having lost its most precious adornment.

During the demolition, we found all our treasures and one box full of old negatives of pictures that should have never seen the light of day. We took the box, we wrapped it in brown paper, wrote,

“David and Jennifer Harrison” and “Confidential”

on it and we dropped it at the front door of their home hoping that we would be absolved of our sins by our admission and reparation of sort.

Finally Mikey and I took our last day together. We went down to the Isle, met some friends at the river and sailed all day along the beautiful north coast. As we returned home Mikey and I promised each other that some day soon, we would sail around the world together and he would join me for new adventures in America. As time would show, for Mikey, this would never come to pass. We kept finding excuses for not saying goodbye, we went down to the water hole on Blackwell’s Creek and skipped stones as we had done so many times as kids. We talked about the old days and we spoke about the future. At the end of the day, when we came to the fork in the road leading to his house we simply walked away in different directions from each other, a wave of the hand as our last signs that this was not final even though we knew it could very well be.

Those last days spent in the house in the village to prepare for my move to America were the worst days I could expect to live. All the insouciance of the days gone by had vanished and the house felt irrevocably empty. Marcella’s spirit seemed to have been taken away from her and she shuffled around the house like a character in search of a play in the dark recesses of an old theater. I suddenly noticed that her hair had turned gray. We didn’t say much, the end of the road was near and we both knew that the wonderful life we had lived was about to take a very different turn.

Marcella suffered in her heart and simply didn’t know how to let go of her pain. For the last many years she had been part of our family before and after I came to rock her world with my antics. She had served my father and had attached herself to me. She had sacrificed a totally different life, forgoing having children or a family of her own. She had dedicated her life to care for us and in return became a valued member of our family. She had concentrated all her love and her feelings on us and had filled our lives with joy and tender care.

November 1965 was the end of the trip. I was embarking on the biggest adventure of my life and even though I wanted to just take her with me, I knew that I could never provide for her and assure her a comfortable life. I had not needed a nanny in years but Marcella was so far beyond being a nanny that our relationship went from nanny and protector to confident and adviser. Many times she injected reflection and common sense in my otherwise impulsive behavior.

Words no longer were needed. I spent my days on the telephone or going to London and finalizing the paperwork necessary for my emigration. I spent my evenings meeting Tommy, Mikey, Monty and Alice at McBride’s and I worked on my cars to make sure that everything that was worn out was replaced as I was sure that I could never find parts for them in the US. The AC Bristol was older and many parts needed to be replaced, the old girl needed new seats and new paint. It looked good, but I could not in good conscience take her with me to the states without looking her best.

The 1957 Austin Healy was different. It had been restored when I bought it and the machine looked and performed well, and even though it really didn’t need it, I tweaked and adjusted the twin oil-float carburetors, shined and polished and made sure that everything about the car was perfect.

So I worked on the cars, spent much time in the garage and away from Marcella probably more as a form of defense than to ignore her. I just didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to tell her to let her know that it was the end of the road. I didn’t want it to be but reality had to be faced and the chances of our life being joined again were all but gone. My father had provided for Marcella, she would never have to worry about surviving. She needed to worry about adapting or returning home to Africa and, like many before her, she no longer belonged there and would never completely belong in England.

Once sadness takes control of people’s lives only an extraordinary optimism and forward thinking can overcome it. From the height of my 18 years and with a view of the world driven by amazement and curiosity, I knew that I would live through anything, I knew that wherever my travels would take me, I would add to my life experiences I could not have gotten by remaining in England. I also knew that the price to pay for this future was the closing of a past that had formed my character and given me the courage and determination to successfully survive in the future. Unfortunately, this past still held loves and attachments that had become futile and outdated in spite of their priceless value. No one can put a price tag on love and a lifetime of dedication to one’s happiness, one can only value it and honor it by never forgetting.

I knew that I could never put warmth in my grandfather’s heart and that our relationship would never be more than it had been. I accepted that, I recognized it and I loved him in spite of my anger at his failure to be happy for himself and the ones around him. He had provided me with a privileged life. If that was his way to express his love, then I knew my grandfather loved me.

New Year 1966 came and the celebrations were subdued almost as if to emphasize the end of our era. With Mikey and Tommy’s help I then put the cars in storage.

On the fourth of January, time had come for me to leave; Marcella stood on the front steps facing me with my suitcases by her side. She looked me over carefully, adjusted my tie and straightened my jacket, she backed away to admire her work and longed forward, grabbing me in her arms and drawing me to her heart in the longest and most emotional hug I could have ever wished for. We hugged for what felt like an eternity. She then pushed me away and said, “Master Peter, please take good care of yourself and honor your name.” She then turned around and entered the house walking proud and straight and closed the door leaving me there alone and faced with the fact that the future had arrived. Hugo picked up my suitcases, placed them in the old Bentley’s boot, open the back door and waited for me to enter.

I ignored his gesture and went around him to sit in the front seat, as I had never been allowed to do for as long as I can remember. Hugo smiled and sat behind the wheel to my right, I took a last long good look at the house I felt I would never see again and at a village remanded to my memory forever. Hugo drove away and I looked straight ahead to my future and the adventures awaiting me in the new life I had chosen. The tears in my heart dripped in my soul like the drizzle of the rain on the Bentley’s windscreen all the way to London.

Word Count: 106478

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“America was America and everybody envied it, the cars, the cities, the fantastic buildings, the way of life, the attitude. America had its own style. It had its own culture and as young and often as naive as it was, it was its very own. It was fresh and honest, optimistic and enthusiastic; it was American.”

Keywords: Harrod’s

Chapter 33…………………….Last Days

The rain in Spain falls mainly in the plain….Good.

The rain in Britain falls mainly…everywhere. Moreover, if you live there, you are simply prepared for a good soaking. Not those downpours that come and go like April showers, but instead you get soaked to the bone by a fine and miserable rain. Then you get the fog, the thick and impenetrable fog made famous by movies like Rue Morgue, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde or Jack the Ripper. Then you hear the women of Yorkshire have such a beautiful complexion. They are pale with reddish cheeks. I don’t know, but I don’t go for reddish cheeks, not even the others…In any case, what does the complexion of the women of Yorkshire has to do with hoping for a dry day when you walk around London. In those days I enjoyed walking around London I had no idea that my quest for all American would someday be altered by the way the world changed and we suddenly found this urge to blend with each other. So I loved London when London was London, when London was British and before McDonald and Pizza Hut arrived. Did I say McDonalds? For someone who wanted everything American that was pretty harsh wasn’t it? You see, I quickly realized that I wanted everything American, but I wanted it in America. I wanted everything British in Britain, I wanted Couscous (or Meftoul depending where you come from) in Algeria and Curry in Calcutta or Bengalore, Tacos in Mazatlan and Manioc in Cameroon. I was ahead of my time, I had understood quickly that this “global village” people talk about now was simply a worldly way to lose our national identities and blend in driven by other people ideas.

Nowhere was it more flagrant and more disturbing than in America.

America was America and everybody envied it, the cars, the cities, the fantastic buildings, the way of life, the attitude. America had its own style. It had its own culture and as young and often as naive as it was, it was its very own. It was fresh and honest, optimistic and enthusiastic; it was American. It encouraged creativity and the exploration of one’s genius. It was always full of opportunities and it gave its people a spirit unseen in other lands. According to what I had learned and seen from afar, America did not put any restrictions on what you could try or the endeavors you could undertake to become someone, create something or open a new path. The French were patriotically French, but they were stuck in an image conscious rut. They did not want their national heritage to be polluted by cultures they looked at inferior or un-French; however, the floodgates had been open when Algeria acquired its independence and France opened its doors to whomever wanted to leave and settle in France. To a great extent the British were the same, but they were opening their doors to immigrants from their old colonies and instead of making these people true royal subjects, they catered to their ways and traditions little by little diminishing their own and eroding the national identity.

I wanted to be free to work and create. I wanted to be one of the men I had seen in the decade after the war who had come and fought and displayed the most incredible spirit and yearning for freedom and justice for all often at the price of their own lives.

So I walked through London, I strolled through the Park and spent long moments in front of every monument and landmark I had for so long taken as part of my life without really ever looking at them. I fed the pigeons; I entered Harrods and took on the smell and sights of all that was Harrod’s. This store was to me the quintessential British store.

I spent much time exploring and taking in the sights and smell of England, I spent time in Cheltenham visiting a friend from school and in Oxford with its incredible history. I went to see friends who used to ride with us during our European adventures, Birmingham to see Peter Finley, Sheffield to see Mark Dermott, Manchester to see Mike Lowry, York to visit Diane French and her father who owned a shiny Harley Davidson. I went to Scotland and visited the sites and places where my ancestors lived. I went to Northumberland and found Vicar and Mrs. Thornton in a small village on the coast near Scotland. The vicar looked to me as if two lifetimes had gone by, but his smile was still contagious and his spirit was just as charismatic as I remember him as a child. We had long talks and we shared many memories and his remembrance of my summers at the church and my antics in the village. He confessed to me that he had really loved the five of us for our spirit and imagination and the love of life we demonstrated as kids. He never mentioned the procession and the dreadful affront we had inflicted upon him. We both cried silently when I told him of Pogsy’s heroic death. I left him with a feeling of warmth in my heart as if I had been able to receive from him an absolution for the unintentional sins and transgressions of my youth.

I returned home for the final days. I was determined to see and touch all the people who had touched my life or whose lives had been touched by me. The first one I visited was Old Man Calhan. I found out that his Christian name was Peter and that he had always harbored fond feelings for me in spite of the few torments he suffered because of us. We spoke for hours about his life and his family. We went to give an apple to old Martin who became excited at my sight and tucked his head against my chest and stayed there, immobile for the longest time bringing tears to my eyes. This is when Mr. Calhan finally told me that he had known all along of our plans to “borrow” Martin and race him in our infernal chariot race and that he had simply chosen to remain silent while trusting that we would make sure that Martin would remain safe and well fed with carrots and apples. I left Peter Calhan, relieved that after our wild and crazy past, people in the village never harbored ill feelings and loved us as their champion team of youthful achievements.

My visit to Mr. and Mrs. Malvesy was filled with emotions. We hugged and wept and didn’t say much; they wished me well, Mrs. Malvesy hugged me and I left, sad and empty

Mr. and Mrs. White had me for dinner and Alice put on her prettiest dress that night. Tommy, Alice and I spent the evening on the terrace behind their home. Tommy took me aside and confessed that he envied me, he would have given everything he had to be able to leave with me. He expressed the hope that some day he may find the courage to join me. I wish that he could have. We talked late into the evening, we recalled the wonderful years of our youth and all our adventures. We spoke about Pogsy and we swore that our friendship would never end. When I think of it 39 years later, I realize that it never did.

Monty’s parents invited me to lunch the Sunday before Christmas. They admitted to me that they always feared me and my ability to get in so much trouble and come out unscathed, They had always feared that little Monty would eventually get hurt or worse yet, ignored for not keeping up. They finally told me that they love our entire group for having adopted Monty in our midst, helping him grow and giving him memories never to forget. We hugged, Mr. Hedgeford shook my hand solemnly and told me to go “conquer” America and we said our goodbyes. Monty walked me to the gate and said quietly, “My mum and dad were so scared that I would leave with you, but don’t be surprised if you see me show up at your door one of these days! Right now, I am all they have and I have to allow them to let me grow up my way. I’m going to miss you”. A few tears later we parted ways and I walked slowly home.

Word Count: 1

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It took me a few months to feel comfortable in my home country; my visits at the village where I spent my summers had really never prepared me for the big city. It was culture shock in my own backyard.

Keywords: Albion, Colobus monkeys,

Chapter 22……………………..Adaptation

England in the summer is a wonderful and spectacular country, and once you travel through this historically magical place, you just can’t help loving it. It’s green countryside with meandering roads, the hills and the forests. The lazy rivers and the quaint little historical villages can only fill your heart with delight and wonder while often transplanting you to a different era. If you let your imagination wander you can easily find yourself dreaming of a world of kings and queens, of swords and armors, of pageantry and grandeur, of style and dignity no longer found elsewhere.

However, when one has lived in that “elsewhere” and when one is transplanted full time to the land of old Albion, one must face a period of adaptation as this wonderful little country is very different from any other place anywhere.

My life had been filled with open spaces and vast expanses of wilderness unseen and even unknown in Europe. I never worried about crossing the street, as the hourly car would come bouncing up the road with so much noise and warning that everybody and everything that both humans and animals would stop what they were doing and await to see what vehicle was trying to destroy itself on the road to the compound. The Colobus monkeys would scream at the approach of the noisy contraption and they alone were sufficient alarm that if you ended up being ran over by the machine, you were either deaf as a flowerpot or stupid beyond comparison. Suddenly I am in the middle of London, the roads are smooth, the cars are silent (most anyway), the taxis abound and run in herds like the wildebeasts migrating to new grazing grounds. You literally have to be careful of you may find yourself under a car without ever hearing it attack you.

All my travels to England so far had been to come to the country house and stay there for the summer and return safely to Kenya where all was nice and easy and where I did not have to fight the world. The only time I went to London in those days were once in a while in the back seat of my father’s Jaguar or my grandfather’s Bentley and I never had to set foot on a sidewalk, let alone in the street. I always saw the tops of building as I was too small to sit and see straight outside. My view was from the seat up and all I saw was the buildings from the first floor up, missing the ground floor entirely.

Most people don’t think of these things, they are used to one way of living and never consider the poor traveler coming from the bush and trying to survive in a world where there aren’t even any lions, leopards, hippos, crocodiles, pissed off rhinoceroses or impatient elephants trying to eat or trample you at the corner of every forest path or every clearing with a water hole. I liked my wilderness better. There I knew the rules. We lived in a safer environment. When I was a kid, we had to be careful not to become some animal’s breakfast of course, but we didn’t worry about anything else. A rebel here and there was more of a nuisance than a problem. The poor bastards had their problems and often these problems were self-inflicted so they just left us alone. There was a chief of territorial police who had made his mind that he was going to really pester these guys and forced them back in the forest until he would capture Dedan Kimathi, their leader, which he eventually did and ended the Emergency once they hung his sorry hide high and dry. These guys were living like animals, always worried about ambushes, distrustful of each other as they would turn their buddies in just to get a way out of the mess in which they were. They often starved and were forced to eat the most abject of food just to stay alive. Do you really think these guys were worried about me when I had always two or three employees of my father watching over me with rifles? Anyone of these guys would have been hyena food if they had only thought of harming me.

So my life was pretty safe, the roads easy to cross and the villages open and welcoming. Now I am in London and every car is trying to run me over, every person wants to push me out of the way so they can go faster to wherever they are going, ready to kill you for 20 feet of distance ahead of you and. And we called Africa a jungle?…

One must adapt. After a few days I had mastered the streets and the precautions to be taken when approaching a crossing or an intersection, I found out quickly why people carried umbrellas, I saw many use this waterproofing instrument turn as a weapon while making some very unsightly marks on the gleaming paint of rude people’s automobiles. So once I had mastered the art of jaywalking, I turned my attention to hurried pedestrians, dressed to kill and in a rush to get somewhere. I had just arrived; I was on vacation for heaven’s sake, why would I rush anywhere! So by being the way I was, I had become an obstacle and a target. The first one who pushed me out of his way stunned me and I did not see it coming; the next thing I knew is that I was shoved hard out aside why being told, “Get the F… out f the way you daft peasant.”

I had no idea that it was so obvious that I was not from this jungle. Whatever was his reason for shoving me so hard, I wasn’t going to take it without some sort of response. I was walking down Oxford Street at peak hour and some bloke came from behind and pushed me hard out of his way and into a store window. The store windows in England must be made of some kind of tough stuff, so I turned around prepared to retaliate and came face to face with the most beautiful and elegant woman. Taken aback I realized that I couldn’t retaliate. Seeing my hesitation she started on me and proceeded to give me a good tongue lashing, calling me a few names with which I hadn’t been made familiar and shoving me aside once more.

I came from a place where women did not shove men out of the way. I came form a family where courtesy was the order of the day and even during an argument or a reprobation, civility always prevailed and the words used were always within the accepted rules of proper and educated behavior. This new life was not going to be an easy one and I feared that I would never get acquainted with the proper way of telling someone to piss-off or the proper manner in which to shove some poor bloke out of the way without being retaliated upon and shoved away and under a stampeding herd of taxis.

Here the people spoke strangely. The difference wasn’t that bad, our English was more proper than theirs, we did not use as much slang. They used words that were really good words to describe things that were not good and they used words I had never heard before, among them I learned that gay was no longer happy…What a world I was discovering!

The cockney slang of the streets was a foreign language to me, some words had made it through but generally we kept from using it in fear to have our elders turn it against us. Even between us we could only say bad words if we practiced them, who has time to practice bad word. There were parts of London where I didn’t even understand the language the people spoke!

Anyway, moving to England required a fair amount of acclimatization. I had no idea at that time that I would need even more when I had moved to the USA.

It took me a few months to feel comfortable in my home country; my visits at the village where I spent my summers had really never prepared me for the big city. It was culture shock in my own backyard. My naive view of the world needed revision, but I liked my world better where it was gentler and simpler. It was a world where there was no place for complicated conflicts, things worked out by themselves and easily, common sense ruled and all went well. That was a world that I would never find again anywhere during my travels. I then realized that I would never go back where my memories had been so happy as they were the only ties I had to my world and my cherished childhood life.

Thankfully, my friends helped me and got me out of serious misunderstandings from time to time, little did I know it would be much worse once I arrived in New York…

Word Count: 103564

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I stood at the foot of a large bronze statue between the colonnades overlooking a sea of white stones, knowing that under each of these stones rested an American hero who left home and family and never saw his or her land again.

Keywords: Omaha beach, American Battlefield Monument, American Battlefield Monument, Star Spangled Banner,

Chapter 32………………….1965, The End of an Era

My father had taken me once more to Normandy in early summer in 1962. This time we went without the group. We left New Haven on the same old ferry, “Brighton.” The crossing of the channel without my friends was generally uneventful. During the summer the storm train migrated to southern latitudes and would not return to the channel until September of October.

To me, the three-hour trip was a re-enactment of the June 1944 crossing of the channel by English and American troops on their way to Omaha, Juno, Sword and all the beaches of the landing in Normandy. I could picture the troops huddling behind the tall gunwales of the LCI’s, trembling in fear and apprehension, ready to face an uncertain future on a foreign beach thousands of miles from their homes, alone, wet and cold, scared but here on a mission free Western Europe from the tyrannical boot of the German military machine. So little did they know that their blood would be shed in staggering proportions, as over 400,000 would eventually give their lives before the conflict would finally end. So many of them would never return to their loved ones and families. So many sweethearts and wives would never see their man again, so many children would never see their fathers and so many parents would never see their sons and daughters again.

We had gone to each of the beaches of the landing, we had visited the museums and the local historical point of interest but we never went to the place where so many of these men laid in their final resting place.

Five years later I finally returned to Normandy, without my father, still carrying the heavy sorrow of his death. I revisited the Pointe du Hoc and Omaha beach. I returned to Ste Mere L’Ēglise and Bayeux and finally ended at the St Laurent American Battlefield Monument and Cemetery. The American Cemetery at St Laurent is an American Island in a foreign land. It holds the remains of over 9000 American heroes who came to deliver us from the tyranny of the German hordes, all brave men and women who sacrificed their life in the name of our freedom. In the semi circular garden are inscribed the names of over 1500 heroes whose bodies were never found or identified.

I stood at the foot of a large bronze statue between the colonnades overlooking a sea of white stones, knowing that under each of these stones rested an American hero who left home and family and never saw his or her land again.

What kind of spirit made such human being risk their lives to defend the freedom of people they had never met or probably thought about before. What gave them the courage to risk it all for a foreign land when theirs was not directly threatened. What glory can be bestowed upon them befitting their selflessness and their insurmountable spirit? I slowly walked down the few steps toward the two tall flagpoles proudly flying the Star Spangled Banner and once more stood there. I was drained of strength and filled with sadness and deep sorrow as if everyone of these men and women tugged at my soul in a spiritual effort to be remembered for themselves but not for their sacrifice. Who was Lt Craig from Illinois, Pvt. Atteberry from Pennsylvania or Sgt. Benson from Michigan? I started to walk by the front row on the left and paused at every white cross or Star of David and read the name of the fallen hero. My heart grew heavier with each name as if each one of them gave me a little piece of themselves. I was a sad young man who couldn’t understand the magnitude of their sacrifice no matter how hard I tried as it was larger than life, bigger than a 17-year-old could fathom.

I walked all day, I stopped often to read a name and try to imagine the man who wore it. Some of them, when they died, were not much older than I was that day, but they had seen the gates of hell and had faced the enemy with courage and strength before falling as casualties of war. What kind of fear had they felt? What kind of despair had they cried? What were their thoughts as they were wading to the beaches under enemy fire or scaling a cliff on rope ladders? What were their fears while laying there wounded, cold and trembling, waiting for a medic or a chaplain, praying for God to spare them or end their suffering? Meanwhile the enemy pounded on them with everything they had, turning the beaches and the hills into a wasteland filled with mortar and shrapnel seeking to kill and maim these heroes fighting for our freedom.

By late afternoon I finally reached the last of the markers and slowly walked back toward the chapel. As I walked by row 19, my strength finally left my tired body and soul. I paused and turned to my left facing a tomb with the inscription William Newton, III. Who was William Newton, III? He was a first lieutenant who had flown in the 84th Fighter Squadron, 78th Fighter Group. For all I knew, he could have flown the same battles my father had. He could have faced the same enemy and could have felt the same as my father had when at the control of their fighter planes in the middle of a dogfight. William Newton, III, had died on July 5^th, 1944, a month after the invasion. He had been awarded the Air Medal With Two Oak Leaf Clusters and a Purple Heart. He was a young man from California who had never returned to see the sunset on the golden coast of Eldorado or the majestic vistas of his magnificent home state. Suddenly, my heart filled with peace and I started to speak to William Newton, III. I asked him about his youth and his dreams, his land and his home. In a trance-like state I saw California and the sunset over the Pacific, the tall trees in the Sierras, the desert and the hills and the life William had left and so many unfulfilled promises. I sat on the ground and all the emotions of the day came rushing out, and I cried, and I cried. During these emotional moments I promised William Newton, III, that someday I would go to his land and go see the sunset on the golden coast bringing with me a little piece of his soul back to a land he would never see again. As I came out of my emotional breakdown, I saw a young man standing over me, in full uniform of an American Air corps lieutenant, inviting me to stand and follow him. I silently rose and followed this stranger and we walked together back towards the colonnade. There we sat on a bench by the statue appropriately called “Spirit of American Youth.” He asked me if I was a relative of the airman for whom I cried. Suddenly I started to tell this stranger what had brought me there and recounted my entire experience of this incredible day. I spoke for what felt like hours as if my soul needed emptying.

When I stopped the young officer looked at me with a smile and said, “Go and follow your heart; leave and go to America. There you will find peace and you will live your life in harmony with your dreams. Go to California and live the life Lieutenant Newton will never have.” He rose to his feet and walked away slowly.

I stood to watch him go. He then turned toward me, smiled, and suddenly gave a crisp and strong salute, did a perfect “about face” and walked by the reflecting pool, down the center aisle and disappeared in a grove of trees in the vicinity of row 19.

I left and hitchhiked my way back to Dieppe and caught a ferry to New Heaven, returned home to London to tell my grandfather of my experience in Normandy. He quietly listened to the entire story paying attention to everything I said. The more I spoke, the more I emptied my heart to this man who I knew as cold and unemotional.

I told him about Monty, Mikey, Tommy and Pogsy. I told him about my adventures and my escapades. He listened and never flinched. I told him that I wanted to leave and go to America to finish my studies. The first emotional reaction I ever received from my grandfather was shrouded in calm reservations. I saw a man who was physically incapable to open his heart to the possibility of receiving pain.

He simply rose to his feet and said, “Peter, if you leave for America, it will be the end. I shall not provide for you and I shall not expect you to return.” He then turned around, walked out of the room and retired in his office.

I recall asking my father once what were the reasons why grandfather never went to the house in the country. He had looked at me, paused a moment to make sure his answer was going to be short but sufficiently clear as not to necessitate any further discussions and he simply said, “Your grandfather died 20 years ago, but no one ever told him.” That answer is still engraved in my soul to this day.

I, who could not feel great attraction and compassion for my grandfather, saw a man who had been prisoner of his own pain accumulated over the years, incapable of dealing with them and letting them be shared and eroded by love and understanding from the people who tried to love him. He had grown distant, cold and alone. He lived his life outside of love and, ironically for such a medieval man, he had buried his soul in a dungeon he had built step by step with the cold stones of his own sorrowful despair.

Word Count: 101991

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We sank into an emotional winter when the sun did not shine and the laughter was smothered by the cold pain in our hearts. Pogsy had occupied such a large place in our lives. We had lived such wonderful adventures and enjoyed so many wonderful times that, of all the holes we made in the waters of Blackwell’s creek, his would never close again.

Keywords: Hero,

Chapter 32………………….1965, The End of an Era

My Father was born just after World War I. Europe was still rebuilding from the ravages of the long and dreadful five-year conflict. Hard times were common fare and the countries of Europe were suffering long and difficult years of economic drought culminating with the great crash of 1929 followed by the depression of the early 1930s.

My great grandfather and my grandfather had protected the family’s assets in every possible way they could. They had converted their service-based wealth into real-estate-based assets. They weathered the storm. The hard times did not affect my family as so many others who suffered total losses and inconceivable hardship during those years. My father continued his education at Oxford. He had continued his social life amidst London society circles and led a privileged and protected life. He had enjoyed a secure youth and had looked forward to better times when the promise of the future could be fulfilled. He had traveled Europe and the United States. He had visited the great cities of the world with curiosity and an insatiable hunger to learn and discover new horizons.

He had filled his young years with knowledge and memories he would later share with me. The world was his oyster and the future was bright, the winds of war had been defeated and the great cities of Europe were shining bright with culture and life.

As insidious as it had been, Hitler has slowly risen to power in Germany first as chancellor, then transforming his national socialist movement into a powerful and unstoppable force until the situation overflowed its borders and the entire European continent became enthralled in the death and destruction of war. Poland had fallen prey to the German war machine and the Nazis atrocities, Belgium, France, Austria, Russia, North Africa, nothing seemed to be able to stop the Germanic war juggernaut. England faced the war head-on and its young men and women began to rally to the defense of the country by enlisting and taking arms against Hitler. Dad and his friends joined the Royal Air Force in August 1940 and were sent to flight training at the RAF College at Cranwell. At the end of 1940, he and several of his fellow pilots were sent to the base at Cranage for navigation training. The reality of war was settling in and he found himself thrown in the middle of the conflict without a minute to realize the danger he would be facing while fighting the Germans. The Battle of Britain, the raids over Berlin, the systematic destruction of the Ruhr industrial might, the essential bombing of crucial facilities at Pennemunde to stop Hitler from developing atomic technology and so many more sorties which all started the same way as knot in your stomach and the primordial fear turning survival into invaluable skills.

Guts and brashness made these boys invincible. Once they had returned from one, two, three or four dangerous missions, pieces of their aircraft missing, landing gear shot off the plane, surviving belly landings on the green English grass and living another day to talk about it, these boys would either tremble at the idea that their luck was about to run out, or started to feel like demi-gods, impervious to German flack from the ground batteries and strafing from Messerschmidts bullets which often left hundreds of holes in the abused bombers fuselage without leaving even a scratch on the pilots and crew.

The war kept it implacable course and the fighting continued. Love and life were put on hold and the mission endured. One new hero rising to take the place of a fallen one, one new pilot coming out of training to jump in the carnage with a smile, a prayer and Glenn Miller’s swing music for protection. And the killing went on.

On the other side of the Channel, young French patriots were finding themselves under the Nazi boot and began to join the underground or “maquis” as it was known and by the end of 1940 hearing the Call of General De Gaulle, the various groups of resistance fighters began a campaign of harassment against the German occupants and the French collaborating militia. My mother was one of them. I may some day write her story.

I tend to relay the story of my father and mother in rather humorous ways but in spite of the humor that can be found in the circumstances, those were dark times for the French population. In many ways, human life had lost its value and the smallest infractions against the new rules imposed by the Nazis were punished severely, often by death on the spot or by arrest, torture at the hand of the Gestapo or by internment in one of the far away concentration camps of Dachau, Buchenwald, Auswitch, Treblinka, and many other of lesser fame but no less brutal and dreadful.

When on December 7, 1941, the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor and forced the Americans to enter the war, my father who was having tea with other pilots paused with anxiety at the news and fear filled their hearts as they realized the global turn the war had just taken. The following four years were going to be filled with fear and pain, hope and anxiety, heroism and glory, brashness and despair, more guts and incredible courage that could ever be imagined coming from a generation that had already lived through the tough times of a postwar era and were now looking at a promising future in a modern and bright world. Those years would see young and old, men and women, parents and children risk their lives in the name of freedom.

My father flew airplanes against the enemy. He was sent on secret missions deep in the heart of enemy-occupied territory. He risked his life and his future to defend a freedom and a way of life, to protect the kingdom, its history and bright future against the Nazi aggressors.

My mother joined the underground resistance movement and worked under the cover of her civilian job at the Academy of Paris to manufacture and distribute counterfeit documents destined to save lives of Jewish children, protect men and women wanted by the Nazis, help allied operatives move freely behind enemy lines and return safely to England. All this under the nose of the Gestapo who was searching hard and wide to eliminate these resistance networks and send their members to death camps or sudden death in front of a firing squad. The Nazi machine that had raided her network eventually finally arrested her. She was tortured and imprisoned and was scheduled to be sent to Buchenwald when the Americans landed in Normandy and she was released, a shadow of herself, broken and in dire need of quiet times and decent meals.

Once the Americans joined the war, the morale of the freedom fighters found new hope, American supplies started flowing down in the field, in many cases, those supplies meant the difference between survival and starvation. How grateful were the oppressed people of the occupied countries and how thankful were the children who saw the Americans as liberators coming to return them to a life of hope and happiness.

Word Count: 100,310

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How fast would life come?  The answer to this question would be answered brutally and without mercy.  Our youth would disappear overnight and reality would set in a the most painful way.  But life would go on, as it always does.

Keywords: Hero,

Chapter 31……………..A Hero’s Life…  Part 2

Rupert & Winston Malvesy had started unloading a Lorry and were moving large crates of assorted supplies. John Malvesy was busy relocating large propane tanks along the wall adjacent to the rear of the Alistair house. After putting the last one down, John joined Rupert and Winston in the unloading of the lorry. Unbeknownst to John, he had placed the last tank on a piece of metal that was lying on the ground, and he hadn’t realized the precarious balance of this tall, loaded tank. After a few minutes, the tank tipped over and fell in the direction of three others. As it hit the first tank, the valve at the top of the tank sheared off and the enormous pressure propelled it in the direction of smaller tanks that were stored against the wall. When the large tank reached the small ones, the violence of the collision broke the valves of the three small tanks. The flammable gas escaped and suddenly exploded with a force that blew out the back of the Alistair’s house as well as the common wall the house was sharing with the store.

Witnesses who saw the explosion recalled that they had never seen a fire spread so fast and burn so hot. The village shook to its foundations and the fire brigade looked horrified when they saw the amount of destruction that had wrecked the building.

John, Winston and Rupert, who were on the other side of the lorry, felt the conflagration and found themselves suddenly pushed violently by the lorry that had been pushed sideways under the force of the explosion. Rupert’s left leg, caught under a large crate, snapped and broke in three places, Winston hit the wall so hard that he lost consciousness, and John, who was closer to the explosion, felt the wind knocked out of him as he literally flew against the wall and suffered broken bones and multiple contusions.

Jim and Molly Alistair, covered with debris and cut and bruised, came out of the house screaming in fear and pain and were quickly gathered and taken to Dr. Harrison by the neighbors. The fire brigade arrived quickly and immediately started to put the fire out.

Mikey, Monty and I heard an explosion and quickly saw the smoke rising over the village and rushed from my house to go see what was going on. When we arrived to the scene, we found nearly the entire village gathered, some helping, some giving an account of what had happened and some adding to the confusion.

I saw the ambulance taking Rupert, John and Winston to the hospital, but no one had seen Pogsy. We started inquiring as to where Pogsy was, but no one seemed to know and no one seemed to be concerned. Monty, Mikey and I rushed over to the Alistair house only to be repelled by constable Jones, who finally had to restrain us physically from entering the burning and ravaged house.

Suddenly, Pogsy appeared, stumbling out of the house, bloodied, most of his clothes burnt off and hanging on his battered body, his hair almost totally gone and his skin burned beyond belief.

We pushed past constable Jones, almost knocking him over in the commotion, got to Pogsy just as he collapsed in the front yard of the house. The crowd then became silent, as if ordered to silence by some unknown force. Pogsy looked at us, grabbed my arm and muttered, “Molly, where is Molly?”

We reassured him that both Molly and Jim were okay and had been taken to the doctor’s office.

Visibly in excruciating pain and unable to speak further, Pogsy’s body then seemed to relax. We stayed next him with tears running down our faces and unable to speak. We were unable to grasp the horrifying fact that Pogsy was fighting for his life. His blue eyes searched ours one by one. We helped him as well as we could and told him what a great hero he was. The siren of the second ambulance grew louder and louder until it stopped behind us. We were pushed away and all the attention turned to Pogsy. A few moments later, Pogsy was taken to the hospital.

Later that day, Jim and Molly told the story how Pogsy had been in the kitchen getting some water and had been hit directly by the explosion and the back wall of the house had fallen on him. In spite of his injuries, he had crawled to Molly and Jim who were frozen in fright in the adjacent parlor and had dragged them to the entrance hallway and had yelled at them to get out only to collapse once more. This selfless gesture saved their young lives.

We made our way to the hospital and stayed in the visitors’ room, waiting for news of our friend, holding hands and crying. We recounted the great times and adventures we had shared with Pogsy and laughed at the memory of all the wonderful moments his trouble-prone clumsiness had given us. We believed in Pogsy and we knew how tough he was. We knew that the care and love of his friends and all the people in the village would get him through this ordeal. We knew that he would never give up.

Pogsy fought valiantly through the night and tried so hard to overcome the pain and the massive injuries, but by morning his strength and his fighting will had left. His battered body gave up, and he slipped into the darkness and left us forever. Tommy, Monty, Mikey, Alice and I left the hospital, hand in hand. We walked to the car where Hugo was waiting to bring us back home. In shock and despair, we cried all the way back to the village. The sun never came out that day as if there wasn’t any reason to shine. Pogsy, our giant friend, would remain in our hearts forever. Little did I know that someday I would tell the world about Mortimer Pogson Malvesy, “Pogsy” to his friends and all the people who had known him and loved him. Rest in peace Pogsy, you always will be our last hero.

Word Count: 97684

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By seventeen, we were well aware that the fun was coming to an end.  Studies were taking a major place in our lives, family matters and general adult responsibilities were bestowed upon us to train us to fly on our own.  We just did not realize then how fast life would come.

Keywords: motorbikes, scooters, hero

Chapter 31……………..A Hero’s Life…  Part 1

Almost five years had passed when my father returned home from his flying duties during the war and five years of training and fighting, wondering which sortie would be his last and not knowing what the future was going to bring, but fighting nevertheless until the allied would be victorious. My father was a hero; he had done his job and returned to his civilian duties as gracefully as he had accepted the challenge of freedom and the fights necessary to preserve it.

He had been awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross and a few other prestigious awards but kept them private. Never ostentatious about his decorations, he had been grateful for their award but discreet about their personal values. He was proud of them and kept his pride to himself.

When I had reached the ripe age of 2, my father decided that I needed to be raised properly, away from the pollution and the misery of big city life. This is when he decided to establish his base of operation in East Africa, away from the metropolitan influence of a large city like London. So for the next 13 years, I spend my winters and school time in Africa and my summers in the lovely English countryside where friendships developed and closeness with my childhood friends meant more than just being regular summer play buddies. We loved each other, we moved as one, and when one was in trouble, all of us were there with him. We knew that if one would end up missing, it would mean that he had died since we knew that nothing, nothing at all, would keep us from getting together and sharing life as it was meant to be lived. The happiness we knew was going to be forever.

The year 1965 started like every year before with the exception that I was now back in England permanently. School in London was beginning to place demands on me that I had never foreseen. The pressure was on, and since I was now under the watchful eye of my dignified grandfather, I could not slack off as any young men my age would like to have the leisure to do. Every morning was the same. Marcella would come to my room at about 6:00 and gently wake me up, open the shades, even though the sun was still somewhere east of Russia, and advise me softly that it was 6:00 as if the awakening time was different from the day before and the day before that. Like every teenager probably always did, I turned over toward the wall and settled back down for another six minutes of dream-filled sleep. Marcella, a willing player in the game of awakening, would then return to my room and advise me in a stern voice to get my skinny rear end out of bed so as not to make my grandfather wait, exasperated, at the breakfast table.

At my grandfather’s house breakfast was a ceremony. At precisely 6:40 breakfast appeared on the morning room table. A freshly-made pot of tea stood in the middle like a funeral urn in the middle of a wake. I use this comparison because my memories of breakfast with my grandfather was almost as fun filled as a burial.

By 6:43 my father and I were to be seated at the precise location that had been assigned by Sir Peter, himself. At 6:45, Sir Peter would arrive in the morning room dressed in a dark, high-collared suit, followed by Harold, the old butler and gentleman’s gentleman, who had been with my grandfather since the early days. Harold would then pull the chair out for Sir Peter who would sit quite properly, reach for his newspaper, raise his eyes and utter the words, “Good morning gentlemen.”

My father and I would then in unison reply, “Good morning Sir.”

Then the fun would start. After a few financial observations addressed to my father and some general comments about the condition of life in the British Empire, my grandfather would proceed to quiz me on all newly acquired knowledge during the previous day at school. The following 20 minutes would be filled with a dreadful oral examination of my academic baggage and a test of my ever-expanding understanding of the world in which I lived.

My father and I submitted stoically to the dreadful breakfast sessions and awaited patiently for the weekend when our escape to the country would give us two days of well-deserved freedom from the stiff environment my grandfather had created in the shadow of the palace.

Our weekends were wonderful. Marcella would pack our things on Thursday night and by Friday noon we would be on our way to the country house in Surrey. My grandfather hadn’t stepped foot in that house since after the death of my grandmother leading everyone to believe that there were some deep feelings in the otherwise apparently cold heart he seemed to show everyone else.

On Friday evening I would call Monty and Tommy and we would all meet at McBride’s Well, and we would sit at one of the few tables that were arranged on the deck behind the pub. There we could drink a beer and enjoy some grilled sausages. Pogsy would join us after the store closed and Mikey would generally arrive on the 8:00 train from Ashford where he was attending school..

The five of us and Alice, who, in spite of her younger age had managed to carve her place in the group, then decided what we could or would be doing during the weekend. Many times these plans included going to the shore during the summer months and running our scooters up and down the green hills while stopping here and there to explore old castles or visit the many glorious cathedrals peppered around the English countryside.

Saturday May 15, 1965, started like every other Saturday in the country. We had planned to travel by scooter to Littlehampton on the coast to go and meet some girls Mikey knew through a friend who was going to school in Ashford. Pogsy had worked in the store with two of his older brothers, as Mr. and Mrs. Malvesy had left that Thursday to attend a hardware exposition in Birmingham. He then had gone to the Alister’s to babysit Jim and Molly.

The Malvesy hardware store was part of a row of buildings in a mixed-use street where homes and stores, many with living quarters above, stood there with no particular order or reason. The Malvesy’s store was the third in line from the corner next to a small grocery store on the left and a town home on the right.

In that town home, Mr. and Mrs. Alistair lived with their two young children, Jim and Molly. Mr. Alistair owned the garage down the street and we knew him well. We often went to check out the cars on which he was working, hoping some day to get our own car and see him turn them into real road-rally speed machines. Meanwhile, he fixed our motorbikes and our scooters and rarely charged us enough to cover his time and parts. Mrs. Alistair was an elementary school teacher but worked at home tutoring children while raising her own. She was a sweet lady who was always baking cookies and generously distributing them to whoever came close enough to smell the aroma of her baking. Of course, we always arranged to walk by and always ended up with a pocket full of cookies to take with us on our escapades.

When Pogsy had become old enough, he had started babysitting for the Alistairs. The kids had become quite fond of Pogsy who played with them and allowed them freedom that Mom and Dad probably frowned upon. It always amazed us to see the giant Pogsy, now 18, hold hands with 7- and 8-year-old Jim and Molly Alistair, walking down the street to the Murray’s bakery and candy store to sneak a candy or two before Mr. and Mrs. Alistair would return from their errands. His gentle attention and his care for all little children was legendary in the village and Pogsy knew that baby-sitting jobs would abound if ever he needed to make extra money.

That Saturday was just like every other. The weather that had drenched the village all week suddenly broke and the sun delivered its warming and healing effect to the earth where the songs of spring would rise from their long winter slumber.

Word Count: 96651

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Riding motorcycles, Traveling Europe and making new friends were the perks afforded to teenagers of that era.  The reality of soon to come adulthood was rushing at us at the speed of life.  Were we ready?

Keywords: Malaguti, Velosolex, Vespa, BSA Golden Flash 650, Norton, Mobylette, Motorcycles, stiffies

Chapter 30…………….The Motorcycle adventures. Part 2

One morning Marcella walked in the bathroom and found me with my father’s Gillette double-sided “safety” razor in hand, my face covered in shaving cream from one ear to the other while looking for a safe way to shave my hairless face.

She stopped and leaned against the door frame, looked at me with incredulity and after a few minutes asked me, ”Master Peter, do you have hair on your bum?”

I looked at her with total surprise as I would have never expected her to ask me such a personal question, “Well no, why?” I answered.

She then turned around and as she was leaving the room she dropped, “Well, you might as well shave your bum too then!” My self-esteem went straight down the drain. I had no more hair on my face than I had on my bum and Marcella had made sure that I become acutely aware of it. I washed the shaving cream off my face and for a few months I simply forgot about attempting to shave.

All this puberty and girl stuff, however, never held a candle to the dreams and fantasies of owning a Harley Davidson. We could not have cared less about girls and little stiffies when we looked at the gleaning pictures of a Harley Davidson. Once while in London I had stopped at Warr’s Harley Davidson and saw those magical machines. It made such an impression on me that I didn’t slept for days after seeing these fabulous and enormous apparitions. Nothing that big rolled on two wheels in England or Europe for that matter. Three lights up front, a shining chrome metal piece surrounding a seat bigger than any seat ever seen before on a motorcycle. We had BSA’s and Norton’s, Jawa’s and BMW’s and DKW’s from Germany, but none could stand the comparison when placed side by side with a gleaming Harley Davidson.

My father used to say that BSA did not stand for Birmingham Small Arms, it stood for Bloody Sore Ass. I was able to test this assumption when my father acquired a 1957 BSA Golden Flash 650 and I must say that in spite of the exhilaration of riding a renowned motorcycle, I agreed with my father.

He then acquired a Bantam D7, 175cc with Telescopic front suspension. He rode it three times and hated it. The darn thing stayed in the back of the garage. I tried everything I could think of to convince him to let me ride it but without success; begging and supplications, promises of chores yet to be invented and assurance of extraordinary scholastic achievements. Nothing worked, and to my great disappointment he finally sold it to Billy McBride who within weeks had the damn bike laying at the bottom of Blackwell’s Creek and himself in a hospital bed with broken legs and a face looking like a malformed hamburger. Fate. Maybe it had been better that I had not been given the right to ride this infernal machine.

Two years went by before I legally graduated to real motorcycles. I finally acquired a Norton 650 SS on which I had a series of what I called European experiences taking me from London to Sarajevo, North to the shore of the Baltic and everywhere in between with Tommy and Mikey and an international group of six or seven other friends always in search of fun and excitement.

We planned out trips according to the time and places when international girls were going to be on vacation. The end of June to mid-July saw us in Spain chasing girls in Sitges or Tarragonna and behaving ourselves as the Guardia Civiles were not too open minded in those days. We then rode like mad men (or mad adolescents) to the South of France for a few days to meet the German girls on our way to meet the Scandinavian girls in Italy where the beach at Rimini saw an invasion of young and crazy kids looking for fun and the making of memories. For some reason, even though we had been made to believe that Scandinavian girls “put out” we never found what they, in fact, did

We then traveled around for the joy of riding and the fun of meeting new people and friends in a world where no one feared for their lives and kids were safe to roam. Common sense prevailed and we had been taught the proper way to live. We did an enormous amount of girl chasing. It was a sport but since the majority of us had not learned all the rules and we did not know enough about baseball to recognize the “bases,” we never scored home runs. I can safely say that we put a lot more miles on our bikes than romantic action on our conquests. As hard as we tried to get in the girls knickers and lose our virginity, the more we made fools out of ourselves and the less we succeeded in getting their attention. We lived with one thing in mind and one alone, try shagging anything with a skirt. We chased everything and since we were not successful, we readily lowered our standards to improve our averages. Our averages, unfortunately, stayed lower than low and as it was we could not improve them since 0 plus 0 is still ZERO.

So we just had fun and then went home alone to play the unspoken and supposedly sinful “hand shuffle” and waited for another day when we possibly have more luck and find a girl who would “put out.”

We rode throughout Europe and ended up with some of the best, self-inflicted history and geography lessons that had been fun and educational. I still think that school should be done on site while traveling; it was so much fun and we learned without realizing it. We saw every country in Western Europe. We rode over mountains and across seas. We entered places that were supposed to be forbidden such as East Germany in the 1960s, Yugoslavia, Czechoslovakia, Hungary. We roamed behind the iron curtain without thinking much about the political differences between the adults of our generation, we were kids and we didn’t care; we loved it.

My motorcycle career was strictly for entertainment. I never raced and never had, while riding a motorbike, the misfortune of losing any skin to rough asphalt and hard ground. Every time I went down St. George’s Hill, I did it with extreme care almost with reverence in memory of the days of the Torpedo.

My old Malaguti, however, was the start of a long love of motorcycles leading to today as I now own the coveted Harley Davidson I had dreamed of as a child which turned out smaller than my memories of the few we had seen as kids.

Our best trips were always in Germany, Western France, Naples, Italy and a few other places where one could find an American military base and foreign girls with the reputation of having loser morals than the girls of Albion. At the bases, we could trade American goods for whatever we could come up or buy coveted items at exorbitant prices. Our goal was to add to our collection of Americanisms while increasing our Americanization or so we thought anyway, and that was enough to make us feel good.

Years later I found out that I had paid several dollars for a 50 cent jar of peanut butter. The American kids became very shrewd very quickly and whatever we were willing to pay was the price for which they asked. It became fair game. It appeared that the rate of inflation in our transactions was growing faster than the national debt.

Very few English kids owned a baseball glove and ball, and after seeing the “Great Escape” I had mastered the moves and could bounce a baseball against a wall as well as Steve McQueen. We however could not play baseball as we had no idea of the rules of the game and one glove and one ball was not enough to play the game. It looked enough like “Rounders” but I could not believe that the Americans would be playing a school ball game often played by girls and make it a national pastime. My baseball glove and ball were signs of prestige and when I came out holding them, the children would gather and watch me with envy. That was priceless to me and I savored those moments with more satisfaction than Pogsy in front of a box of chocolate.

Word Count: 95220

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